


waiting for the light

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [27]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Unresolved Sexual Tension, eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, offscreen fellcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 02:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19347271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: It's time for Schrodinger's Date.





	waiting for the light

**Author's Note:**

> no content warnings for this one because it's pretty darn fluffy, but hmu if you think any need to be added and please enjoy!

Edge is as good as his word. As soon as Sans reluctantly pries Red off his lap and lets Edge walk him out to the cab they insisted on paying for, Edge turns to him and says abruptly, “I’m available tomorrow. For the dinner and movie. I get off early on Sundays.”

There’s a sex pun to be made there, but Sans decides to leave it be. He grins. “I dunno. You think Red’ll give me the day off?”

“I think my brother will give you a great many things if you ask,” Edge says.

“If you say so,” Sans says noncommittally, because like hell he’s touching that comment with a twenty foot pole. “You wanna pick me up?”

“Yes,” Edge says. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way over.”

“Okay,” Sans says. 

His soul shouldn’t be fluttering like he’s a teenager with a crush. He is a grownass man who fucked most of the eligible people at the university. It's just two buds, going to see a movie and then getting dinner with total plausible deniability. No reason for things to get weird.

***

Papyrus is the one to answer the door, almost before Edge knocks. Edge pulls his hand back just in time to keep from knocking on Papyrus’s ribcage.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Papyrus says. He’s always been what one might generously call energetic, or, less generously, manic and/or driving himself relentlessly into the ground, but today he seems to hum with happy energy like a newly recharged battery. “Come in!”

Edge steps through the threshold into Papyrus and Sans’s house and immediately almost trips on the dog. The dog beams up at him with worship in his eyes, which is what Edge gets for throwing a bone for him once. _Once_. This is why Edge is a cat person. “Hello, dog.”

The dog wags and barks his odd, squeaky bark. Rolling his eyes, Papyrus scoops him up and deposits him on the table by the door where he keeps his car keys and various detritus. He points a finger in the dog’s face. “You’re already on thin ice for the shrine incident! Don’t get underfoot, overfoot or around foot.”

Frantic wagging. Another excited bark. 

Edge says, “The shrine incident?”

Papyrus sighs. “I told him that most dogs just chew on the couch when they’re left home alone, but no! Shrines to my handsome visage in the second basement.”

“Second basement?” Edge echoes, feeling rather like a parrot.

Papyrus throws up his hands. “Exactly! We didn’t even have a second basement! While I understand the urge to create a shrine to my greatness--”

Edge raises a brow. “Do you?”

Gamely, Papyrus concludes, “We’re never getting our security deposit back.”

Edge would’ve assumed that had more to do with Undyne’s cooking lessons, but never mind. Awkwardly, he sits on the couch. “I assume last night’s party went well.”

“Oh,” Papyrus says, caught off guard. His face colors even as he smiles. “Yes.”

Edge remembers that feeling, the morning after his first scene with Red. The scene had been awkward, clumsy in ways that make him cringe now, but he’d felt amazing afterwards, like some long-starved hunger had been satisfied when he’d quietly accepted that it never would be. He nods. “Good.”

The stairs creak. Edge automatically turns towards the sound and freezes when he sees Sans. More to the point, what Sans is wearing. It’s still a version of Sans’s depression uniform, a t-shirt and black shorts, but the shirt is one Sans hasn’t worn around Edge before, the fabric soft and clinging. He’s not used to Sans wearing shirts that aren’t at least a size too big on him, and he’s outright suckerpunched by the sight of the collar wrapped around Sans’s wrist.

(Of course he’s wearing it. Edge _knew_ he was wearing it. But to see it there, undeniably real and worn where Papyrus can see it, is another thing entirely.)

He’s staring. Sans’s grin is awkward. Plucking at the shirt, Sans says, “Yeah, it’s kinda tight.”

“It actually fits,” Edge says.

“Thank you!” Papyrus says. “I’m glad _someone_ around here appreciates fashion.”

Sans shrugs, making an unconscious gesture like he went to put his hands in his pockets only to realize he has no jacket. Cocking his head, he looks Edge over with an appraising eye. “I dunno. I can appreciate it sometimes.”

Edge has to stop himself from smoothing his jacket down. It’s much the same thing he wears to work every day, just a button-down and jeans. Despite Red’s many, many suggestions of what to wear for maximum seductiveness, Edge hadn’t wanted to seem over-eager. If it’s the shirt he reserves for meetings with people whose opinions actually matter and the tightest jeans he owns, then Sans will never know. 

When he glances over at Papyrus, it’s to find that Papyrus is watching them with a shiteating grin. Edge clears his throat and stands a little too abruptly. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep.” Sans grabs Red’s jacket where it’s slung over the arm of the couch. “Any idea when Red’s gonna give me my hoodie back?”

“None,” Edge admits. He has a few suspicions regarding what Red’s holding onto it for. One reason is that Red genuinely is trying to get Gaster’s handprint out. It offends him that Gaster put his mark on it. Another reason is that Red undoubtedly wants to wear the hoodie while Edge fucks him, which crosses so many boundaries Edge won’t even let himself think about it. (Much.) And one is that if Red wears it with the hood pulled up, he could be mistaken for Sans, particularly in the dark of the void. 

It’s bait for when the time comes to make Gaster pay.

“Asshole,” Sans says without heat. He shrugs into the jacket and gives Papyrus a lazy grin. “Catch you later, bro.”

“Yes,” Papyrus says cheerfully. “Very later.”

Sans gives a pained chuckle and escapes. 

The dog lets out a plaintive yip and Edge pauses to scritch him behind the ears. He’s not a dog person, but he’s not heartless. Then, with a nod to Papyrus, he follows Sans out the door, falling into step just behind and to the left of him.

Sans cranes his head back to look at him. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Edge says. There’s a sweet ache in his soul at the sight of that grin, which seems warm and fond and meant only for him.

They get into the car in companionable silence. As Edge starts the engine, Sans asks, “How’s Red?”

“Much better,” Edge says. “He slept hard after you left, and he seemed more himself this morning at breakfast.”

“Good,” Sans says. Then he catches himself not being an asshole. “Wait, no. That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Of course,” Edge says dryly. “He should be all right for a while.”

“Just his LV acting up?” Sans asks.

Edge gives him a sharp sidelong glance, but there’s no judgement in Sans’s expression. It seems to be genuine curiosity. It’s not unfair of him to ask, considering the way his relationship with Red has changed and deepened over the last few months. Not to mention that Sans has gained LV of his own and may be worried that he has similar breakdowns to look forward to. Perhaps asking Edge seems safer than asking Red himself. It’s certainly more likely to yield a constructive answer.

“Yes,” Edge says. “LV doesn’t rest easily on him. Whether it’s due to being the judge or to his low HP, I can’t say. I thought about asking our Dr. Alphys for her opinion, but…”

“But you didn’t want her to make him a lab rat.” There’s a funny, bitter grin on Sans’s face. Before Edge can say anything, not even sure of what he would say, Sans continues easily, “Makes sense. Your LV doesn’t do that?”

Edge redirects his gaze out the windshield, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Not as dramatically.”

“Okay,” Sans says. “So, uh. What do you do when it does?”

“Much the same thing as I did last night,” Edge says. Better to be careful with his words, for all that Sans didn’t flinch or look at Edge like he was a beast when he saw Red’s bruises.

“Gotcha,” Sans says. “Man, watching b-movies’ll fix anything, huh?”

Edge looks at him, sincerely hoping that’s a joke. Perhaps not. Sans has unplumbed depths of deliberate obliviousness. Sans grins back at him, and Edge huffs out a laugh. “Yes, it’s amazing, the healing properties of watching people recklessly fire guns in spaceships like they’re not in a metal can surrounded by unforgiving vacuum.”

Thoughtfully, Sans says, “Well, explosive decompression sure is one way to get rid of space zombies from Mars. Can’t try to eat anybody’s brains if you’re drifting off into the nearest sun.”

“It’s also a good way to pointlessly kill themselves in the process,” Edge says. “There was a forklift _right there_ , for fuck’s sake.”

Sans laughs. “So I guess we’re skipping the sci-fi today for the sake of your nonexistent blood pressure. What d’you wanna see?”

“The Accidental Wife, if you have no objections,” Edge says.

No doubt that Red would object loudly, as if Edge has never found battered romance novels under Red’s mattress when he’s cleaning. When they were underground, Red claimed that they were the only books he could scavenge and that their hilarious awfulness was better than being bored. Edge has no idea what his excuse would be now.

“Works for me,” Sans says. It’s a breath of fresh air, how casual he is about Edge’s taste for softer things. He’ll mock a great many things, but not that.

“If it’s terrible, feel free to entertain yourself with running commentary,” Edge says.

“Hey, I might be an asshole, but I tip well and I don’t talk in movie theaters,” Sans says. “I’ll save my snark for dinner.”

“Something to look forward to,” Edge says. He finds that he’s not kidding.

The theater is probably close enough to walk, on the border of what has become unofficial monster territory. It gets a good deal of business these days from humans that come to try magic food at Grillby’s and slum with the locals. Their nosiness puts Edge’s back up, but it’s better than pitchforks, he supposes.

They park and go in. Sans keeps up an amiable stream of conversation about nothing in particular, which is a skill Edge has never mastered. He hopes his short replies don’t seem ungracious. Mostly he just wants Sans to keep talking. He likes Sans’s voice. If he listens closely, he hears the ghost of a Hotland accent in the way that Sans pronounces certain words when he’s distracted, as if he couldn’t quite carve that out of himself no matter how he tried. Or, more likely, that Gaster couldn’t.

There’s a queue at the ticket booth. They’re hardly in it a minute when someone pipes up behind him, “Edge? Is that you?”

It takes Edge a moment to place the small human woman smiling up at him. She works at the embassy and is getting her Master’s in something he can’t quite recall. Frisk likes her. Frisk likes almost everyone, but she’s fluent in hands and talks to them as if they’re a small adult. She has a picture of her cat on her desk, a beautiful orange Maine Coon. He thinks her name is Amber. Or possibly the cat’s is.

“Hello,” Edge says stiffly. He doesn’t ask her if she knows enough tall, leather-clad skeletons to mistake him for someone else. He searches for something acceptable to say. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks,” she says. Now that they’re in this conversation, she seems as much at a loss as he is as to how to continue. She fiddles with her necklace and smiles. “I’ve never seen you outside of work. I was starting to think you lived there.”

“I leave occasionally,” Edge says. “Otherwise I’m fairly sure my brother would resort to eating out of trash cans like a feral raccoon.”

She laughs. “I know that feeling. I live with my little sister. If I let her, I think she’d try to live off ramen and get rickets or something.” Her attention moves to Sans, who’s been letting this play out without helping because he’s an asshole. “Oh, hi! You’re Red, right? I’ve seen you around the embassy a few times, I think.”

“Heh.” Sans grins at her. “Close, but no. I’m Sans.”

She winces. “Oh man, sorry. I’m Amber. I’m also an asshole, apparently. That was insensitive.”

“Nah, I hear we look a lot alike,” Sans says. “Plus I’m borrowing his jacket and I do some work at the embassy. It’s a long con to try to steal his identity and use his bank card to go to Tijuana.”

Another laugh, in that way that people do when Sans effortlessly puts them off their guard. Amber says, “That seems like a lot of effort to go through. I mean, I’m sure he’s a lot less intimidating than he looks, like Edge, but--”

“Yeah, no, he’s worse,” Sans says. “Maybe give him ten feet of space at all times and don’t make eye contact. He bites.”

Amber glances at Edge to see if he’s going to jump to his brother’s defense. Edge declines to do so. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Why do you say I’m less intimidating than I look?” Edge asks. Whatever he did, he’d like to know so he can never do it again.

“Not in a bad way!” Amber says. “You’re very intimidating to the people who need to be intimidated! But you’re also really patient with Frisk and with Monster Kid, when they come around.”

“They’re children,” Edge says. “Of course I’m patient with them.”

“You make sure you don’t raise your voice around Jimmy from accounting because the one time you did, it gave him a panic attack,” Amber says.

“He can’t do his job if he’s having a panic attack,” Edge says. “It’s only reasonable to keep the embassy running efficiently.”

“You gave Dolores from reception flowers when she came back from her leave of absence,” Amber says.

Edge narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure where you heard that, but those were anonymous. It could have been anyone.”

“You spent twenty minutes in the hallway talking with the treasury of the board of education about how she bottle-feeds foster kittens whose mother died,” Amber says.

Goddamn it, Edge thought he was being discreet. “Yes, well, now I know she doesn’t have the time to embezzle funds.” Somehow they reached the counter without him noticing. Sans already pulled out his wallet, and Edge says severely, “Sans, you are _not_ paying. Put your money down.”

“Okay,” Sans says, putting the gold down on the counter beside the register. To the cashier, he says, “Hey, Jay. How’s your mom? Got over that cold okay?”

With a sigh, Edge looks back at Amber. “So it’s because everyone at the embassy has nothing better to do than gossip.”

“You’re mysterious,” Amber says with a shrug. “People like a mystery. Add that to the fact that you’re aloof, good with kids, tall…” A hesitation. She bites her lip. “ _Very_ handsome…”

“So hey, it’s your turn to buy tickets,” Sans says to Amber, smoothly cutting in before she can say anything else. “Better hurry up. The people behind you are getting pretty ticketed off. I’m gonna get popcorn, edgelord. You want some?”

“I’m coming,” Edge says, desperately grateful for the chance to escape this conversation. “Enjoy your film.”

He flees before she can say anything else. He needs to yell at someone in the hall at work tomorrow, clearly. Possibly several people. Possibly at Undyne for letting slip that those flowers were from him. He doesn’t even know why he sent them. Dolores calls him dear and tries to give him hard candy. It’s annoying.

When he catches up to Sans at the vending area, Sans says without looking away from the menu board, “Foster kittens, huh?”

“Ticketed off?” Edge shoots back.

Sans shrugs. “Not my best, but they can’t all be gold. Seriously, you want popcorn?”

Not particularly, but if Edge says no, Sans won’t let him pay for it. “Yes. I’ll get it.”

With a sidelong grin, Sans says, “Okay, sugar daddy, if that’s what you’re into.”

This new flirting habit of Sans’s is hell on Edge’s nerves. He can’t decide what to even say to that, so he goes and buys popcorn. It occurs to him as he’s handing over change that Sans may have orchestrated things so that Edge has the pleasure of offering him food again, in public for good measure. Or Sans just enjoys being a pain in the ass. Or both.

(Hopefully Sans reserves those indecent little noises of appreciation for Edge’s pancakes or Edge is going to spend the movie uncomfortably aroused.)

They make their way in the theater. The ridiculous luxury of the human world gives Edge a moment of pause, as always. There were cinemas in his universe, of course, the better to show Mettaton’s propaganda about the history of the monster war fought by their terrifying king against the evils of humankind, but they were indulgences reserved for the well-off who didn’t agonize over every loaf of bread. He’d never been in one himself until Frisk dragged him along on a family outing, and he’d spent most of it feeling both too exposed and yet penned in by the people seated around him. He didn’t make it the full two hours before making his excuses and going home. He’s gotten better since then and actually enjoys it on occasion, so long as he gets to pick the seats.

Sans has a way of letting Edge be the one to choose without drawing attention to it, as if he just so happened to pause and look around and isn’t actually waiting for Edge to decide where he’ll have both unobstructed access to the emergency exit and a good view of his surroundings. There’s not even a hint of pity for whatever horror from Edge’s past Toriel imagines to make her look so terribly sad when he asks to sit where he can see the door. It’s not as if she doesn’t have trauma of her own.

“The top right corner,” Edge tells Sans. That way he can put his back against a wall and see any threats that come through the door long before they reach him.

“Okee dokee.” Sans starts to make his way up the steps with Edge at his back. “Guess that means if Red pops in to check in on us, he won’t have a spot to lurk.”

“He has absolutely no shame and would just sit there with his feet on the back of someone’s chair and watch like this is a spectator sport,” Edge says.

Sans grins. “Pretty sure everything’s a spectator sport to Red. Aside from the stuff that’s full-body contact.”

Edge considers him for a moment, then takes a risk. Sans is certainly acting as if he’s comfortable with suggestive remarks. “Both have their merits.”

Mild. Unobjectionable. Easily apologized for if Sans remembers his discomfort with Edge’s attraction to him and recoils.

Sans doesn’t flinch. He studies Edge in return like he’s trying to figure whether to raise the stakes or fold, and then grins wider. “Meanwhile I’m in the stands, playing with weiners all day.”

Edge laughs, startled into it. Sans looks highly pleased with himself. It’s a good look on him. Edge tells him, “That was amazingly immature.”

“Thanks, I peaked at seven.” Sans tosses popcorn in his mouth with remarkable accuracy. “You laughed.”

“It’s a shame I’ll carry the rest of my life.”

“If you forget, I’ll be sure to remind you. ‘Hey, edgelord, you remember that time you thought the word weiner was hilarious?’”

“Please stop saying weiner,” Edge says.

Sans’s grin is sharp enough to rival Red. “Oh, wow. Now I’ve got something else to remind you of. ‘Hey, edgelord, remember that time I got you to say weiner? I do. Because I’ll treasure it forever.’”

_I cannot believe I collared you,_ Edge thinks but does not say. Sans might hear it as regret and not understand that Edge is marveling at his good fortune. That commitment is too new and too tender to tease him about, not when Sans is looking at him with such delight in his eyes.

Around them, the lights begin to dim. Soon the only illumination in their row is their respective eyelights. Another reason to sit in the back; humans tend to find it unnerving. Sans winks at him and turns to face the screen. The show begins.

The film is unobjectionable. Edge has seen enough human movies at this point that he’s learned to predict the plots of the mediocre ones. He enjoys romantic comedies, but not ones in which the hero has more romantic chemistry with his best friend and the heroine should clearly stay with her sensible and kind ex-boyfriend instead. The jokes fall painfully flat, although Sans laughs occasionally at things the director didn’t mean to be funny. It’s a mess.

It can’t be more than thirty minutes into the movie that Sans shifts over in his seat. When he rests his head on Edge’s shoulder, shamelessly using him as furniture, Edge’s thoughts scatter to the wind. The movie fades into the background, eclipsed by the soft warmth of Sans against him. 

“That okay?” Sans whispers.

Edge must have stiffened. Forcing himself to relax, he nods. Sans leans on him a little more.

Sans is taking up far more than his share of the armrest. The cuff of his jacket has bunched up. The light coming from the screen is bright enough to let Edge see the collar peeking out. Edge’s fingers twitch before he stills them. He tries not to stare, but the hint of black leather keeps dragging his attention back.

After a few more short scenes of the movie that Edge couldn’t recount under threat of torture, Sans lifts his head. Edge turns to look at him, biting back a protest, but Sans only shrugs off the jacket and slouches against him again. Now there’s nothing hiding the collar and the sleek bare bones of his wrist and forearm, a fact that is far more enticing than it should be. Edge could touch him if he dared. He could stroke the collar as idly and possessively as he touches Red’s. He could--

He could sit here and keep his hands to himself is what he could fucking do.

Sans turns his hand over, palm up, and wiggles his fingers. Edge tries not to remember the things Red has told him about Sans’s clever hands. He whispers, trying not to sound flustered and instead sounding only terse, “What are you doing?”

“Thought you might need a hand,” Sans whispers.

Edge turns his head to stare at him. Sans grins back, a placid surface concealing deep waters, giving him nothing to work with. After a moment, Sans gives a quiet _heh_ , shrugs and looks away. Before he can withdraw his hand, Edge covers it with his own. It’s graceless and abrupt, but Sans doesn’t flinch.

The collar presses against the base of Edge’s metacarpals. It’s warmer than Sans is and resonating faintly with all the intent Edge has shoved into it over the months. Back then, Edge thought he had a plan. He thought he knew the way this was going to go. Holding hands at the movies like young lovers didn’t factor into it.

Edge watches Sans’s expression, the careful way Sans isn’t looking at him, the uncertainty of his grin. It’s not the expression of someone on a misguided quest to cure Edge’s touch starvation. It’s dim in the theater at the moment, but he thinks Sans’s face is flushed. 

Clarity strikes Edge like a punch in the face. He sees things that he should’ve from the start, if he hadn’t been so focused on what he expected Sans to do and not on what Sans was actually doing. Perhaps when Red offered to draw him a diagram, Edge should’ve taken him up on it.

Reluctantly, he looks back at the screen. His soul is giddily beating like he’s running for his life. He squeezes Sans’s hand carefully and Sans gives him a squeeze in return. Then another. Another. Another-- oh, Sans is trying to do _shave and a haircut_. Of course. 

Edge makes him wait several seconds before providing the final _two bits_. He has standards. Sans’s quiet chuckle makes him smile, but Edge can be forgiven for that if it’s too dark for anyone to see. He settles into his seat to finish out the movie, finding himself glad for its banality. It won’t distract him from the way Sans’s hand feels in his.

***

This is the most wholesome thing Sans has ever done in his life.

Holding hands seemed like a good way to test whether he’s going to think of Papyrus and freak out the second he touches Edge in a non-platonic just-bros-being-bros kind of way. It went okay when Edge held his hand while Sans talked about his shitty childhood trauma, which was comforting but pretty much the opposite of a romantic overture. If Edge balked, hey, plausible deniability. _Our world is a big old love-in, edgelord,_ Sans would say. _Platonic buddies hold hands at the movies all the time. Just take my word for it._

Edge didn’t balk. 

The wires don’t cross in Sans’s head. He doesn’t freak out. He is holding Edge’s hand, feeling the collar hum softly where Edge is touching it, and it’s kinda nice. Sometimes Edge absently strokes the side of Sans’s hand with a thumb, as if reminding himself Sans is still there. Sans tries not to think too hard about how long Edge’s fingers are compared to his own and the amazing things Edge could do with them.

(Okay, so it’s not that wholesome, but compared to the shit he usually does on the first date…)

(Not that this is a date. He’s pretty sure both people have to actually be aware it’s a date before it qualifies. He’s gonna milk that technicality for all it’s worth.)

Things are going well, until the sex scene near the end of the movie. Sans probably should’ve seen this coming (ha), but from the way Edge tenses slightly against him as the happy couple tumbles into bed, Sans isn’t the only one who didn’t think this through. It’s just the two of them holding hands, watching a sex scene together in the full knowledge that Edge thinks his attraction to Sans isn’t reciprocated. That’s not agonizing at all.

Okay. Relax. It’ll be fine. The scene will tastefully cut to black in a second. This isn’t a porno.

… it’s not tastefully cutting to black. Nope. That is definitely some artfully implied fucking going on. Kind of impressive how the dude just climbs on top and apparently inserts Tab A into Slot B without using his hands or looking down. Even Red can’t manage that trick, unless you’re talking tentacles, which is way more interesting than human movies usually get.

“I love you so much,” says the dude.

“I love you too,” she says. If this movie has one thing going for it, it’s the dialogue. It’s downright riveting.

A lingering shot of her hands moving over his naked back, overlaid by tame moaning. They have simultaneous PG-13 orgasms. It feels like the scene lasts a mortifying eternity but in reality, it probably lasted 90 seconds. Somehow they didn’t mention in the trailers that the hero was a two pump chump.

As the lovers stare tenderly at each other in the afterglow, Edge mutters, “Thank fuck that’s over.”

Bless him for killing the hideous awkwardness of the situation. Sans manages to muffle most of his snickering into Edge’s jacket. He whispers, “That’s what she said.”

Edge scoffs. Someone shushes them. Still laughing a little, Sans lays his head back on Edge’s arm and settles in to watch the last few minutes of the film. It ends happily ever after in a house in the suburbs with a dog, as these things usually do. Amazingly, there’s no last minute plot twist where the heroine decides to also fuck the hero’s foul-mouthed, murder-happy brother.

The credits roll. The lights begin to slowly go up. Edge is still holding his hand like maybe he forgot he’s doing it, frowning at the screen with a slight furrow between his brows. Thoughtfully, he says, “I resent the existence of this movie and the money that was spent to film it.”

“Succinct,” Sans says. “To the point. You missed your calling as a movie reviewer.”

“Clearly, considering that this got good reviews,” Edge sighs. Despite his words, he looks content. His eyelights are soft. “Any thoughts on dinner?”

“So many thoughts I made a reservation already,” Sans says.

Edge raises a brow, not like he’s justifiably skeptical about the idea of Sans putting in actual effort but like Sans said something very interesting. “Did you now.”

“Yeah, I know, it surprised me too,” Sans says. “The phone didn’t even burst into flames.”

“All right,” Edge says, studying him. “Where?”

“Grillby’s.” For a few seconds, Sans enjoys Edge’s exasperated expression. It’s the best. “I’m fucking with you, buddy. It’s somewhere else. I’ll give you the directions.”

“I do so enjoy your cryptic bullshit,” Edge says.

“I know.” Sans winks. “If you don’t like the look of the joint once we get there, it’s cool. We’ll go wherever else you want. Y’know, so long as it’s Grillby’s.”

“Well, then.” Edge gives Sans’s hand one last squeeze before releasing him, as if he didn’t so much forget they were still holding hands as he just didn’t want to let go. “Shall we?”

They shall.

Their destination is in the artsy-fartsy district. There’s traffic, but Sans barely resents having to deal with it instead of being able to use a shortcut. It’s time where he gets to hang out with Edge, even if it doesn’t involve much more than reading directions and occasionally pointing out something funny, like a dick proudly spray-painted on a wall or another (slightly wonkier) dick proudly spray-painted on another wall. It feels like hanging out on Edge’s lunch break. He thought a date would feel different.

(Not that this is a date.)

When they finally get close enough to the cafe for Edge to read the neon sign, he says in a tone that’s half warning and half struggling not to sound delighted, “Sans…”

“What?” Sans asks. Look at how very innocent of all things he is. Red keeps saying that this universe is supposed to be all rainbows and kittens. It’s not Sans’s fault he decided to exploit that to its fullest advantage. “Fur-tunately, there’s a parking spot right there.”

Edge looks at him, looks back at the Feline Lucky Cat Cafe, looks back at him, and then huffs a disbelieving laugh. He parks the car. “That is a terrible fucking pun.”

“Mine or the person who named the place?” Sans asks.

“Both, and I sincerely doubt that’s the end of your bullshit wordplay for the night,” Edge says. His gaze drifts back to the cafe, or more likely to the enormous brown tabby studiously grooming themselves in the window. “How did you find this place?”

“Alphys. There was a cat cafe in Mew Mew Kissy Cutie, so she nerded out about it.” The look Edge gives him, like he’s somehow brilliant for listening to people when they talk and remembering things Edge likes, makes Sans glance away. “It’s more of a cafe than an actual place for dinner, but they’re got sandwiches and stuff. Coffee. If you’re hungrier than that, we can--”

“You have a habit of offering me something and then telling me all the ways it’s not good enough,” Edge says. “You’re normally a much better salesman than this.”

“Yeah, well.” Sans shrugs. “Normally I don’t give a shit if somebody likes the hotcat once they’ve handed over their cash.”

“I’ve never been disappointed,” Edge says. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Well, I can’t exactly sell myself tall, edgelord,” Sans says, giving him a sidelong grin. “Do you want to go in?”

“Very much so,” Edge says, with a longing glance towards the window.

So they do. It’s not until they clear the door that the second reason that Sans picked this place becomes obvious. Over the speakers is playing bright bubblegum pop, although it’s quiet so as not to bother the cats' ears. Yes, okay, the inside of the cafe is decorated like a magical girl anime exploded and also the servers are wearing cat ears, but hey, Japanese pop music. He tried.

As the hostess hustles over to intercept them, Edge stands there for a moment, his head cocked to one side, taking it all in. He looks like a biker that took a wrong turn into Candyland, tall and dark and, yes, intimidating. For a minute, Sans wonders if Edge is going to take this for an elaborate joke and get pissed. Then Edge reaches out, rests a hand on Sans’s shoulder, and gives him a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you,” Edge says, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Sans covers Edge’s hand with his own and gives it a pat. “No problem, buddy.”

The hostess, whose bright cheerfulness has a few cracks in it because she’s still stuck working a service job on a weekend and probably not getting paid enough for it, walks them through the various rules about not feeding the cats, not harassing the cats, not stuffing the cats under your jacket on your way out, not getting confused and eating the cats, etc., as Edge nods solemnly and thanks her for her dedication to their care. The hostess warms up a little when he says that, and miraculously, their service for the rest of the night turns out to be amazing. 

Sometimes it cracks Sans up that Edge thinks he isn’t good with people. Other times it breaks his heart.

The food is basic stuff you’d get at a coffeeshop, but Sans is pretty sure people don’t come here for the food. He sure didn’t. He came here for what he gets: Edge sitting at the table with his sandwich half-eaten and his cup of plain black coffee cooling at his elbow, his attention entirely focused on the kitten that’s playing with his shoelaces. She’s gotten his left boot mostly untied and is fiercely tugging at the shoelace with her teeth.

“I’m not sure where you think you’re going with that,” Edge tells her. “There’s a toy mouse right over there that would work much better.”

She falls over and begins furiously kicking the shoelace with her back feet. 

With an indulgent sigh, Edge says, “I outweigh you. By a great deal.”

“It’s a purrfectly reasonable argument, but I don’t think she’s listening,” Sans says. This is more entertaining than the movie was. Drama, intrigue, bloodshed… well, scratches to the leather of Edge’s boots, at least, but Edge doesn’t seem concerned. “The bloodlust has kicked in.”

“A shame. She’s so young.” A little jingly ball rolls across the floor and under their table. Edge bends down, picks it up and gives it a gentle underhand toss. Immediately, the kitten abandons the shoelace, tumbles to her feet and skitters off after it. Pleased with himself, Edge says, “And so easily distracted.”

Sans looks at him, the light in his eyes, the relaxed angle of his usually stiff shoulders, the soft smile playing around his mouth. It’s such a small moment, considering everything they’ve been through. But no, it’s gotta be now, when Edge is exclaiming over the cleverness of a kitten who brought back a jingly ball for him to throw, that it happens.

Boom. Lightswitch.

Seems like it would be worth no end of trouble to see that kind of happiness on Edge’s face. In the mornings, say, with pale light coming in the bedroom window and Red warm against his back, Edge cradling Sans’s face in his hands and bending down to kiss him slow and hot-- 

“Sans?”

That pleasant fantasy breaks apart into a few thousand pieces. Sans realizes that he’s sitting with his chin resting in his hand while he thinks fluffy thoughts about being kissed by a boy, and his past self from when he actually had his shit together promptly dies from sheer mortification, causing a time paradox and ending the universe. He clears his throat and grins at Edge, who is looking at him like he thinks Sans might need medical attention. “Sup?”

The shoelace murderer is in Edge’s lap getting petted and looking very pleased with herself. Sans tries not to be envious. Then again, cats have a pretty much ideal existence, what with all the napping and the eating, so he can be as jealous as he wants. Edge considers Sans thoughtfully. “Our hour is almost up. They need us out so the next reservation can come in.”

It seemed like fifteen minutes. Time flies when you’re having not-that-shocking revelations about the fact that you might not be as allergic to the concept of a relationship as you thought. Sans finishes up his coffee and nods at the kitten. “Do you want that in a to-go box?”

“I already have a new acquisition to the household,” Edge says.

“Two, sort of,” Sans says with a grin. “One and a half? I’m a part-time acquisition.”

That gets an almost-smile. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, but Fang doesn’t have to share his food with you. He would kill me in my sleep, not to mention what my brother would do.” Edge scritches between the kitten’s ears and tells her, “But you’re very sweet. You have to get down now.”

It takes a little nudging and a few indignant meeps before the kitten gets down. Edge reties his boot and then stands, brushing white fur off his black pants as best he can. He holds a hand out to help Sans up. Wildly unnecessary, but Sans takes it. Edge proceeds to hold onto his hand, giving the hostess a respectful nod as they make their way out.

Once they’re on the street, Edge says, “That was incredibly thoughtful of you.”

Jeez. Sans grins sheepishly. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my rep.”

“I’ll refrain from telling anyone about our trip to the violently pink cat cafe,” Edge says. “Or else it will be mutually assured reputation destruction. But I won’t forget this.”

Good. Sans won’t either.

They get back in the car. Sans is tired as hell, but it’s the good kind of tired. He rolls the window down and leans his head out to look at the stars. Edge makes a small noise, like he just bit back the urge to tell Sans he’s going to get decapitated by a road sign. Sans sits back in his seat and sighs. “Yeah, no point. Light pollution in this part of town is a nightmare. I dunno how anybody sleeps.”

“Looking for stars?” Edge asks.

“Usually,” Sans says. “You wanna help me see some?”

The joke falls between them like a brick. Suddenly, the air feels about twenty times heavier than normal gravity. After a long moment of Sans trying to figure out the best way to recover, Edge gives him a smile that would make a smarter man fling open his car door and take his chances jumping into traffic. “Why yes, Sans. I would like that very much.”

“Okay,” Sans says, dragging the word out as he tries to kickstart his higher thought processes instead of the ones going _good, pull over and take me now_.

Edge looks amused. He puts on his turn signal a perfect quarter mile before he takes his next turn. “Excellent. There’s a planetarium at the college. We’ll go there next time, if you’d like.”

It takes Sans a good five seconds to recognize the joke and laugh. It’s a little hysterical. “Sure. Planetarium. Sounds great. Downright stellar.”

“Are you quite all right?” Edge asks.

Sans needs twenty cold showers and a drink. It’s been a while since Edge gave him that hungry, predatory look and he wasn’t prepared for it to make a comeback. “Yep. Just a little starstruck. It’s not every day an edgelord like yourself volunteers to take me up Uranus.”

“I’ve doomed myself to this for the rest of the drive, haven’t I,” Edge says.

“Aw, don’t sound so sirius. Most people would be over the moon to get this material for free from a star comedian like myself.” Sans gives Edge a crooked grin. “Buckle up, buttercup. I have so many of these.”

“I have made a terrible mistake,” Edge says.

Luckily for Edge, just a few minutes of space puns and they’re out front of Sans’s house again. The neighborhood is dark and quiet around them. 

Welp. Sans turns to Edge and says, “Hope I showed you a good time.”

Whoops. Innuendo.

“I knew you would,” Edge says. The weight of his stare makes Sans feel a little too hot in his jacket. “I hope to return the favor.”

It’s a completely innocent statement, but Sans has a couple very vivid ideas about all the ways Edge could show him a good time. He swallows hard and grins. “Yeah, okay. Just warning you, I’m a one trick pony as far as dinner ideas go.”

“That’s fine. It was an excellent trick,” Edge says. “I do have a question.”

“I might have an answer,” Sans says. “What a crazy coincidence.”

“Was this a date?”

Sans’s mind stalls like a car on the tracks with a train bearing down. He stares at Edge, frozen, feeling the seconds tick on until the long silence becomes something he can’t blow off. Red warned him that this might happen. He should’ve had an easy answer prepared, but he’s got absolutely nothing.

Edge’s mouth curves in a slow smile.

“Um,” Sans says. 

Edge takes pity on him and says, “You don’t have to answer.”

That’s nice of him, but Sans thinks he kind of does. He looks away, grinning ruefully. “It was the holding hands thing, right? We held hands when I was telling you about… that stuff the other night, but I guess that’s different.”

“I enjoyed it,” Edge says. “Perhaps not your subtlest moment, but I’m afraid your subtlety has been lost on me. My brother offered to draw me a diagram.”

Sans laughs. “I’m sorry you turned him down. I’m sure it’d be a work of art.”

“Anatomically correct, at the very least.”

“It was kind of a dry run,” Sans admits.

“Like an experiment,” Edge says.

“It sounds bad when _you_ say it, but yeah,” Sans says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” There’s a soft creak of leather as Edge shifts. Sans can still feel the weight of Edge’s eyes on him. “Did you come to any conclusions?”

Sans risks a glance at him. The heat in Edge’s gaze sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. Maybe it’s dark enough that Edge didn’t notice, but Sans doubts it. He says, “Some. Might be a tricky implementation process. Gotta think about it.”

“Luckily, you’re not working alone,” Edge says.

“No, but when you introduce new variables into a stable system, it could...” Sans trails off.

The truth is that he feels like he’s standing in the middle of a showroom of beautiful, expensive, fragile things and if he breathes wrong, they’re going to start breaking. But that’d be mixing his metaphors. The scientific version would probably be “I feel like I’m standing in an infectious disease lab and there are poorly sealed samples everywhere and I’m afraid I might start a pandemic,” which is not exactly complimentary.

Abandoning metaphors entirely, Sans says, “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” Edge says with terrible gentleness.

“That’s probably giving me way too much credit, but thanks.” Sans looks away again. “You’re gotta be tired of waiting around for me by now.”

“I don’t want to screw this up any more than you do, Sans,” Edge says. “You’re important to me whether we ever fuck or not.”

There’s an ache in Sans’s throat. He swallows. His grin feels a little more genuine. “Yeah, the collar was kind of a clue. And, uh, same. You sure your trait isn’t patience?”

“Fairly sure, yes,” Edge says. 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Then I’m doing well,” Edge says. “We can take it as slowly as you like, if we do this at all. It’s your choice.”

“You’re too good to me, edgelord,” Sans says. It’s supposed to sound light and breezy. Just a joke. It doesn’t. “You know how much simpler your life would be if you picked a nice, normal person instead? There are a couple dozen in the embassy who’d snatch you up in a second.”

“I have no interest in nice, normal people,” Edge says. “For one thing, they wouldn’t survive meeting my brother. It would be like throwing a wounded deer into a lion cage. Briefly entertaining, yes, but short-lived and messy.”

“So I’m the wounded deer he decided he’d rather fuck?” Sans asks. “I lost track of this analogy.”

“As did I, but please assume you’re something sufficiently deadly.” Edge touches the back of his hand. Sans twitches, startled into meeting Edge’s eyes. The look in them is deep enough to drown in. Quietly, Edge says, “I want you.”

When he says it like that, Sans wants to let Edge have him. 

It would be simpler to offer to suck him off. (So long as he parked somewhere at least half a mile from Papyrus, because Sans has limits.) It’d test that whole _I’m pretty sure I won’t mistake you for my brother during sex_ theory to destruction. Easier that than this sweet, fumbling vulnerability. But he’s pretty sure that now that he asked for time to think, Edge would (correctly) see it as Sans falling back on old habits and turn him down. Plus there’s the fact that quick and dirty has its merits, but he doesn’t want it to be like that the first time with Edge.

Well, quick, at least. He’s okay with dirty.

(And if he’s honest with himself, he wants Red to be there. It won’t feel right without him.)

With a last brush of his fingertips across Sans’s knuckles, Edge takes his hand back. He keeps watching Sans as if he can’t tear his eyes away. “You should go in now.”

Sans could kiss him. It’s traditional at the end of a date that went well, or so he’s heard. Just nuzzle his mouth, almost as chaste and safe as holding hands. Maybe he could test the points of those razor teeth with his tongue. Maybe he’d see if Edge will let him in deeper. Maybe he’d ratchet Edge’s seat back, climb on his lap, and--

He lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I’m gonna go think about some stuff.”

(He’s gonna think about it at great length, probably biting his pillow to keep from making any sound. There’s gonna be some hardcore thinking going on.)

“Good,” Edge says roughly, as if he knows exactly what kind of thinking Sans is going to do. “I have some things to think about myself.”

“I’m sure Red’ll be happy to help with that,” Sans says. “Too much solo thinking and you’ll go blind.”

Edge huffs a laugh, the tension breaking between them like a soap bubble popping. “No doubt he will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That’s Sans’s cue to exit. With a lazy wave, he gets out of the car, trips on the curb, recovers and makes for the house. He can feel Edge’s eyes on his back the whole time. It’s not until he unlocks the door that the engine turns over, the first strains of Britney Spears coming from Edge’s open car window. Helplessly, Sans smiles.

When he opens the door, Papyrus is on the couch in the living room. So is Red, slouched against the armrest in such a way as to avoid putting much pressure on his shoulders. There’s some trashy reality show on TV, which Papyrus hastily switches to something more respectable. As soon as Red sees the look on Sans’s face, he grins like a shark whose hapless keeper fell into the tank.

Papyrus says, “Brother! How did your not-at-all-a-date go?”

“Fine.” Sans shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over Red’s head, covering his smirking face. “I’m gonna change out of these clothes and then I’ll give you the boring details, if you want.”

“Boring,” Papyrus says with a sly grin to rival Red’s, clearly aware that Sans is about to provide him with so much ammunition for fraternal mocking. “Yes, I blush all the time when I’m terribly bored! It must be genetic.”

“Sure is.” Sans starts towards the bedroom. “Anyway, don’t let me interrupt you watching Jersey Beachfront Bros. I hear this is the one where Chad gets drunk and tries to fight a vending machine.”

From beneath the jacket, Red snorts. “Of course he does. Chad’s a fucking douche.”

“I have you know we were watching Mettaton’s adaptation of Shakespeare,” Papyrus says, not very convincingly. “Cherry is a patron of the fine arts.”

“Depends on if the fine art has people with their junk out,” Red says.

Ignoring him, Papyrus continues, “I think Hamlet is quite improved by the ghostly father being played by an actual ghost. Napstablook hardly looks terrified at all!”

“I’ve always said Jersey Beachfront Bros is Shakespeare with spray tans,” Sans says.

“You have never once said that!” Papyrus says, indignant.

Sans closes the bedroom door. He’s not surprised by the fact that when he turns around, Red is right behind him, radiating smugness so hot that the authorities should probably evacuate the area just in case. Up close, he still looks tired as hell from a week of lousy sleep, but much better than the last time Sans saw him.

“Shoulda kept the jacket over your head,” Sans says. “It suited you.”

“You look kinda hot and bothered, Sansy,” Red says. “Figure out where that lightswitch is yet? Did you lick it a few times just to be sure?”

“There was no licking involved,” Sans says. He doesn’t deny the first part.

Red’s eyes burn brighter with vicious satisfaction. He puts a hand on Sans’s chest, gently pushing him against the door and then following him there to kiss him. It’s slow and surprisingly sweet, stoking the fires Edge already lit. Sans is shaking by the end of it, grasping the back of Red’s neck to keep him close. He barely remembers not to touch Red’s shoulders. Red’s thigh is between his, and it would be so easy to rub off against him.

“Edge figured out what was going on,” Sans says.

Red hums, his thumb idly stroking Sans’s sternum through the shirt in a way that makes his pubic symphysis throb. “Knew he would. Only reason he didn’t before now is because he’s trying to be careful with you. He was waiting for you to give him a green light.”

“Yeah, but it’s a green light in a school zone,” Sans says. His mouth is running but his mind is entirely focused on the battle between wanting Red’s hands on him and knowing that there’s only a thin wooden door between them and his brother. “Speed traps everywhere. Crossing guards with signs. Whole lot of minivans, just a _fuckton_ of minivans--”

“Mm-hmm. You want me to back up a little?” Red asks.

No. “Yeah.”

Red backs up a couple steps, putting space between them. “Didn’t realize you were that riled up or I wouldn’t have started something I can’t finish.” Then, looking hopeful, he adds, “Unless you’ve changed your mind about screwing around at your place?”

“Nope,” Sans says with regret.

“Damn,” Red sighs. “Can I watch while you--?”

“Also no,” Sans says. “I’m gonna take a cold shower. Are you gonna stick around and watch TV with Paps?”

“Nah, we were just waiting up for you,” Red says. “I’m gonna head home and take advantage of you getting the boss warmed up for me.”

That’s just rubbing it in, especially considering it’s two days running now that Sans hasn’t gotten laid and his stupid libido has complaints. Red’s spoiled him. Ruined him for (almost) everyone else. “Lucky you,” Sans deadpans.

Red grins. “Very lucky me. You sure you don’t want a quickie? We could bang on the roof if that’d make you feel better.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Mostly.

“Shame.” Red claims another kiss. “Glad you finally found that lightswitch, sweetheart. Now go fondle yours.”

Then Red is gone. Sans lays his head back against the door, counts to twenty and does not slide his hand under his waistband. After that’s done, he strips, grabs some clothes he uses to sleep in, and heads for the bathroom. He means to make the shower bitterly cold, but after a few seconds of considering the density of the magic already mostly formed in his pelvis, he gives into the inevitable, leaves the water warm and grabs the detachable showerhead. He has some serious thinking to do.


End file.
